


Firework

by GnomeIgnominious



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: F/M, New Year's Eve celebrations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GnomeIgnominious/pseuds/GnomeIgnominious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fireworks bring back a lot of things he'd rather forget- the smell of churned earth and shattered stone after a barrage of shelling, the taste of blood in his mouth as he carries a wounded friend to safety, the deep boom of heavy artillery that sucks the air out of your lungs and the hot slow drip of Italian words across his tongue.</i>
</p><p>Win helps Fred through New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firework

Fred always worked on Bonfire night. It was a given at home; Win wouldn't even ask, making a thermos of tea and putting an extra helping of potatoes on his plate. It was also a given at the station that the guv would be there until the small hours, even after the most dedicated of revellers had stumbled home to bed. He would sit down in the custody sergeant's office next to the cells, smoking and doing paperwork and keeping an eye on the ebb and flow of the uniformed officers throughout the night. The room was in the basement, windowless and quiet, a haven from the crowds and fireworks outside.

Fred also tried, as often as he could, to work on New Year's Eve too. He could sit with whoever was on duty in the office and fill it with pipe smoke and idle chat and not have to hear the noise or see the flashes from outside. This year, however, was different. He'd no ongoing cases and by 5pm on the 31st nothing new had landed on his desk. He would be spending the evening at home. 

Tea was cheerful enough, with Sam and Joan bickering good-naturedly as always. Fred could feel Win's eyes on him through the meal. Eventually their plates were cleared and the children disappeared upstairs; both were planning on ringing in the new year with their workmates in the city centre. Fred followed Win into the kitchen to help with the washing up. They worked in pleasant silence for a while until a loud crack and red flash high in the sky indicated the first of the celebratory fireworks. Fred jumped involuntarily at the noise and the plate he was drying slipped and smashed on the floor.

"Bugger." He kept his voice carefully controlled and tried to stop his hands shaking.

"Oh, never mind." Win was already reaching for the dustpan and brush. "I was never keen on that set anyway."

"Everything all right?" Joan had appeared at the kitchen door. "Dad?"

Fred glanced over his shoulder and clenched his hands in the tea towel. "Fine, just slipped," he said shortly. "You go on out. Be careful."

Win binned the shards of china and smiled at her daughter. "Enjoy yourself, love. Try not to be too late back."

Joan nodded and pulled on her coat, moving down the hall to call up the stairs. "Sam? Hurry up!"

Sam thundered down the stairs, hair slicked back and shirt freshly ironed. "See you later!" he called into the kitchen and the siblings left the house.

Win put the dustpan and brush away and carefully touched a hand to Fred's shoulder. She could feel him trembling. 

"Let me finish this, you go and have a pipe in the sitting room."

He smiled at her gratefully and left the room. Win watched him go, noting how defensive his posture was. She quickly finished the drying up and checked the cupboards. They had nothing stronger than stout in the house and she knew Fred wouldn't have accepted brandy or whisky anyway. She hoped her presence would be enough to help him through the next few hours. 

Fred was sitting on the sofa, tobacco pouch on the table, turning his unlit pipe over and over in his hands. Win made sure she stepped into his line of sight before sitting down close to him, letting her shoulder gently press up against his. She knew the reason he preferred to work on Bonfire night and New Year's Eve. They'd called it shell shock during the first war. Battle fatigue. Operational exhaustion. Fred had been very careful not to talk about what had happened to him during the war- partly, she knew, because he had been doing some kind of secret work- but partly out of some misplaced sense of protecting her from the horrors he had experienced. Eventually as the years went on and the war became more and more distant, he had opened up, gradually, like he was waking up from a very deep sleep. 

He had pressed her fingers to his scars one by one, telling her about the days he had got them- a piece of shrapnel here, a chemical burn there. He also spoke, with difficulty, of the emotional wounds- the first man he'd seen dead, the second, the tenth. The first he'd killed. But above all, he could remember the smell of the dust and desert of north Africa and Italy and the endless shelling they'd endured. Weeks upon weeks of explosions and gunfire. And Win had held him close and let him go to work on Bonfire night and New Year's Eve because she knew he could sit somewhere safe and quiet and try to forget the smell of cordite and blood.

Another three fireworks went off in quick succession nearby and Fred jumped again, shaking more violently. Win caught his hand and he squeezed her fingers painfully hard. She leaned close so he could smell her perfume, feel her hair on his cheek and try to stay grounded in the present. 

"Tell me about your day," Fred said suddenly. His voice was hoarse and his eyes were fixed on a point in the middle distance.

So Win did. She told him about going shopping and chatting with the neighbours and sweeping the kitchen and putting out food for the stray cat she'd seen wandering the street. She kept her voice even and held his hand the whole time, pressing their bodies together shoulder to toes as best she could on the small sofa. Every time another firework went off Fred's breathing would accelerate and she could feel his pulse pounding through his body. She talked for an hour at least, until an especially loud bang made Fred stiffen unnaturally and suddenly stand up, dropping Win's hand and his pipe. He stepped away from her and went to the door, looking up the hall with eyes that didn't seem to comprehend what they were seeing. He looked back to Win. Looked through her.

"Francesca?" Fred's voice was soft and his eyes looked black in the dim sitting room. "Sei tu?"

"No, Fred," Win whispered. "It's me. It's your Win." She moved to stand in front of him.

"Win?" He sounded agitated and afraid. "Non può essere- dovresti essere al sicuro a Londra!"

Win didn't understand enough Italian to know what he was saying, but she took her hands in his and held his gaze.

"Fred. You're safe. Listen to me. We're at home. The war's over." She squeezed his hands. "Fred."

All of a sudden he seemed to come to and his body trembled violently. "Win." He almost choked on the word and pulled her close, still shaking. They stood like that for some minutes until Win broke the silence.

"Come on. Let's get you to bed." She tugged on his hand and led him upstairs. 

His fingers were still quivering too much to undo his shirt buttons. Win made short work of them and helped him out of his trousers and underclothes and into his pyjamas. Then she got changed herself and got into bed. Fred hesitated, standing awkwardly next to his side of the bed.

"I could stay downstairs if you like."

Win frowned. "Whatever for?"

"Don't know if I'll sleep much, is all." A distant whiz bang echoed his words and he twitched involuntarily, cool bare feet on the rough carpet keeping him in the present.

"Nonsense, Fred, get in. You'll sleep even less if you sit on the sofa all night."

He acquiesced wordlessly, switching off the light and curling up beside her. The fireworks had finally decreased in frequency and Win began to drift off to sleep, until a small noise behind her brought her suddenly fully awake. She turned over to face her husband and was surprised to see him looking back at her with very wet, red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh, Fred." She'd only seen him cry a couple of times before- after Mickey Carter had died and at his mother's funeral. He let out another small sniff (the noise which had woken her) and scrubbed his eyes with a corner of the eiderdown.

"Come here." She embraced him awkwardly under the covers and he buried his face in her neck, broad chest hitching as he tried to stop the tears. "It's all right. I'm here. We're safe." She repeated the words over and over until his breathing calmed and his shoulders relaxed. He drew back and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Sorry." Win barely heard the word through the darkness. 

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Alfred Thursday. Nothing at all."

He gave a sniff and a watery smile at her use of his full name.

"Thank you." His voice was quiet. "For everything, Win." He leaned forward and pressed a chaste, almost uncertain kiss to her lips. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Fred." She kissed him back, properly and together they drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I used Google Translate for the Italian Fred speaks- he says "Win? It can't be- you're meant to be safe in London!" Thanks to the anonymous commenter who improved the translation.
> 
> I have no knowledge of PTSD or flashbacks except what I could find online- I hope it's accurate.
> 
> I am almost certain Fred's full name is Alfred not Frederick. It just feels right.


End file.
